Whiplash
by Vilinye
Summary: When the coin drilled into Shaw's brain, Charles was still connected. AU


Hold him. Don't let go, don't look away; like a sideshow man with a spitting cobra, shade my eyes. Reflections splinter in all directions, infinite mirrors of hubris.

Shaw's thoughts spill over: all of the new order registered at birth, taken and raised by the worthy, surrounded by their own kind—_ only the strongest, only the best, only the highest_. And the others? Animals, to serve and be silent.

No wonder Erik hates this man.

He walks up to Shaw. Through the man's eyes, I see the helmet sitting on Erik's head as if it were made for him. "If you're in there, I'd like you to know that I agree with every word you said. We are the future. But, unfortunately, you killed my mother. This is what we're going to do."

"No. Please, Erik, no." He mustn't. He can't. Shaw deserves to die. But not like this. Not in secret. Not for revenge (not while I'm wading through his hate-filled mind).

"I'm going to count to three and I'm going to move the coin."

The coin. A small, silver piece, so dented and rusty it could be a nickel or a quarter. Erik's mentioned it, but Shaw _remembers. _ Metal bars and barbed wire, a small boy (seeing how small Erik was, made smaller by fear, twists something inside), the same words.

"**One."**

"Please, Erik." The coin leaves Erik's fingers, slowly arching towards Shaw's forehead. He sees it—of course he does—but he can't do anything to stop it.

Shaw doesn't scream, even in his mind. He laughs, because he was right and they both know it. The strongest survive. Erik is only strong because Shaw made him that way (no, that's wrong. Courage is greater than despair.)

Still moving.

Can't stop it…can't tell him…

can't…

The world twists 90 degrees. I collapse, legs limp as wet string. Outside, the roar of missiles fills the air. Eric will stop them. No matter what he's done Of course he can. But the grey-speckled sky still triggers the flight instinct, the burning desire to be anywhere but here.

The Neanderthal is running scared, my fellow mutants.

No. Erik.

"Go ahead, Charles. Tell me I'm wrong."

The missiles have frozen. No, more than that—they've _reversed_. They're pointing back at the ships.

"They are not the enemy." He doesn't understand. "You know what our enemy is? It's an attitude. The attitude that looks at people and says 'I am human and you are not. I am worthy to live and you are not.'"

Can he even hear me? "Shaw killed Darwin. It doesn't stop with humans. Someday, it'll be your friends. It'll be us."

The missiles waver. I try to stand, but my legs won't cooperate. Two limp strings. I can't feel them moving. There's no pain. No response at all. "My legs… I can't feel my legs. "

The missiles explode where they are, filling the sky with smoke and shards of metal. The others run over, Eric and Raven taking the lead. "Charles? What happened?"

There aren't any scars. It doesn't even hurt. I just can't feel my legs. My head still aches from trying to reach Eric, from holding Shaw…Shaw. "Shaw. We were connected when—it must be him."

Eric meets my eyes just long enough to confirm my guess.

"We have to go to a hospital." Moira insists.

"No."

"Charles—"

"It's not worth it." Even if something could be done, spinal injury with no apparent cause would prompt questions, tests, blood work, and all manner of forms that could be used to track us down. "Let's just go home."

* * *

"Charles, where have you been? We haven't seen you for days. Not since –" Moira cuts her sentence short.

It takes a moment to comprehend the words, distinguishing them from Cerebro's overlapping hums. Since—since I came down for breakfast and found half the seats empty. Since Erik and Raven left without so much as a note. But it doesn't take a telepath to understand his motivations.

He hadn't removed the helmet at all for the two weeks between Cuba and his departure. We'd barely spoken three sentences to each other at a time. Everything—his mannerism, his silence, his excessive force for even the smallest task—implied that he couldn't bear to be around me anymore.

"You have to eat, Charles."

No. Not now.

She doesn't answer.

"Later," I answer, aloud this time. "Please, let me be. I have to find them."

She sets a glass of water on the floor and walks out.

Cerebro returns to the basic interface, a sea of sparks. Charles could be any of them—or none, if he's wearing the helmet. But if Raven's still with him (she must be, he'd offered her freedom, a world without disguises) she'll know my voice.

_You promised never to read my mind. _

Then read mine, sister. Read all the things I didn't say. Know how much I miss you, I miss you, I know who you are no matter what you look like. Remember a mug of hot cocoa in the kitchen. We are siblings, always, no matter how we disagree.

And if Eric's there, tell him something from me. _I forgive him. _ He couldn't have known—he didn't know. _ I forgive you, Eric. _ Please, come home. Shaw wanted to make you strong, but fear breaks, it doesn't build.

When the words become too heavy, it's just memories: Erik turning Cerebo's dish, Raven's John Wayne imitation. When even those become too heavy, he sinks into one emotion, reflected in half a dozen treasured moments: connection. Raven shifting into her natural form, Erik chasing the sub, Hank working on the subersonic jet, Angel's wings unfolding.

I thought I was alone.

You're not alone.

Moira comes back with another glass of water. Caleb says the others miss me. The sun cycles through the sky overhead, fading to pale moonlight. "Professor, you need to see this." When I take off the headset, my hair is plastered to my scalp. I push my chair down the ramp, muscles protesting the still-unfamiliar rhythm.

The door opens from the other side, revealing a half-circle of people with Hank, Moira, Sean and Alex at the back. The other faces are new, but … _others. _Not Raven. Not Eric.

But still. "How?"

"Guess all that searching paid off," Alex grins.

"I heard a voice," one says.

"It's just like in my drawings—the dish and everything."

"It just feels…right."

Of course there are more. Of course…

"So, Professor," Sean gestures to the others. "Where do we start?"

What gifts, what stories do these people have? The white-haired girl, the boy with tightly closed eyes—who are they, and what can I teach them? What might they teach me?

Even now—even after everything—joy flickers like a flame at the thought of finding out.


End file.
